She came.
I put it to her, in the most earnest manner, to tell me, whether I might not obtain the favour of a fortnight's respite?
She assured me, it would not be granted.
Would a week? Surely a week would?
She believed a week might, if I would promise two things: the first, upon my honour, not to write a line out of the house, in that week: for it was still suspected, she said, that I found means to write to somebody. And, secondly, to marry Mr. Solmes, at the expiration of it.
Impossible! Impossible! I said with a passion—What! might not I be obliged with one week, without such a horrid condition as the last?
She would go down, she said, that she might not seem of her own head to put upon me what I thought a hardship so great.
She went down: and came up again.
Did I want, was the answer, to give the vilest of men an opportunity to put his murderous schemes into execution?—It was time for them to put an end to my obstinacy (they were tired out with me) and to his hopes at once. And an end should be put on Tuesday or Wednesday next, at furthest; unless I would give my honour to comply with the condition upon which my aunt had been so good as to allow me a longer time.
I even stamped with impatience!—I called upon her to witness, that I was guiltless of the consequence of this compulsion; this barbarous compulsion, I called it; let that consequence be what it would.